


Six Days Aboard the RMS Inception, April 1911

by cobweb_diamond



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1910s, Alternate Universe - Criminals, Alternate Universe - Movie Fusion, Boats and Ships, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-03
Updated: 2011-01-03
Packaged: 2017-10-14 09:34:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/147856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cobweb_diamond/pseuds/cobweb_diamond
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written as a kinkmeme fill for someone requestion an Arthur/Eames AU of Titanic. I have made... some changes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Six Days Aboard the RMS Inception, April 1911

Arthur recognises him straight away. A not-so-clean-shaven man in a mud-green Norfolk jacket, leaning over the rail amongst the crush of passengers waving goodbye to their loved-ones on dry land. Arthur’s eyes pick him out because he’s the only one not crying or waving a handkerchief at someone on the dock. Rather he’s just standing there like he’s observing the scene rather than participating in it, an oasis of stillness among the overwrought emotions of the jostling crowd. Arthur wonders how long it’ll be before someone else recognises him from the pictures illustrating the Wanted advertisements and, later, the crime column articles in the Telegraph and the Times. Eames (because that’s the man’s name, or at least his most prominent alias) isn’t a household name in any family other than Arthur’s. Fraud, however cleverly perpetrated, isn’t glamourous enough to warrant popular infamy.

Perhaps no one will recognise Eames after all -- he looks like he might have darkened his hair, and the only reason Arthur recognises him so quickly is due to the constant stream of press cuttings that his aunts have been mailing him since the beginning of his uncle's court case. That, and the fact that he’s in possession of an extraordinary memory for detail.

The detail, in this case, is Eames’ posture as he lounges against the ship’s rail, easily recalling his relaxed pose in the dock at the King’s Bench division of the Supreme Court of Judicature, pleading guilty with a smile and a wink set aside for his thin-lipped barrister. That had been the one and only time Arthur had ever seen him in the flesh, going out of curiosity as to whether the man who’d brought Uncle Nash low was going to end up incarcerated or not. Arthur had briefly considered sending him a note of thanks for swindling Arthur’s asshole of an uncle out of his ill-gotten estate, but then he’d managed to jump bail and Arthur had put the matter out of his mind. Despite the fact that the man was probably a scoundrel of the highest order, Arthur couldn’t bring himself to be particularly outraged by Eames’ flagrant defeat of the justice system; his hatred for Uncle Nash had outweighed that entirely.

Still, he should make sure not to bump into Eames while on-board. Six months ago Arthur would have found a certain perverse pleasure in shaking the hand of the man who took down That Bastard Nash (as Arthur had privately referred to him for years), but it wouldn’t be wise to be caught consorting with a known criminal while in an enclosed environment such as a 3000-person vessel in the middle of a transatlantic crossing. Eames would probably be a disappointment in the flesh, anyway. Most professional swindlers are charming but only interesting in the way of a character from a cheap novel for young girls: briefly intriguing from a distance, but pretentious and unsatisfying in the long run.

Once they’ve weighed anchor and pulled out of sight of the coast, Arthur leaves Eames the convicted -- and escaped -- fraudster (“Current whereabouts,” according to the crime section of the Sunday Times. “Unknown.”) and goes to his cabin. The maid has already pressed his trousers for dinner this evening and hung up the rest of his clothes, but Arthur is relieved to see that she’s not discovered the secret compartment in the bottom of his valise. His revolver is still safe and sound.

That night he sleeps easily, lulled by the hum of the engines, the sound and vibration insulated by the seven decks below him. The next morning he shaves with the port-hole open, sea breeze making its way round his stuffy cabin and ruffling the unbuttoned opening of his shirt collar. He’s on his way back to America at last; he is free.

*      *      *

  
The ship’s crew are putting on a lot of entertainment to keep the passengers busy. Whist tournaments, croquet, deck games, knitting circles, book clubs, dances... but Arthur has no intention of making friends on this voyage. Instead he goes to the First Class library and selects a copy of Frankenstein to read on one of the deckchairs outside, alone. 

The sun is weak and yellow, but warm enough by noon that a lot of people are out taking the air, women’s long skirts swishing over the deck, Arthur strolls around the perimeter of the ship to look for a free deckchair, taking in the swooping of the gulls overhead and the trails of steam from the four funnels strung along the centre of the upper deck. He’s almost reached the open area around the prow when he spots Eames sitting on a kitchen chair (probably stolen from indoors; there are none others around), bent over a notebook. As Arthur draws nearer he contrives to look over the man’s shoulder. He’s drawing, not writing -- sketching a couple of children playing with marbles, rolling them around in an enclosed circle of string on the not-quite-level planks of the deck.

The picture is crude and hurried, but somehow captures their movement perfectly. Arthur recalls that a great deal of Eames’ success as a confidence trickster had been down to his phenomenal skills as a forger. Uncle Nash had signed no end of false documents by the time he’d become fully embroiled in Eames’ scheme. It stood to reason that Eames would be able to draw as well. 

‘Hello?’ says Eames, putting down his pencil and looking up at Arthur. He doesn’t look particularly annoyed by Arthur’s interruption. 

‘My apologies,’ says Arthur. ‘That’s good,’ he adds, gesturing at the picture. ‘Are you an artist professionally?’

‘Of a sort. I’m a sketch artist for the law courts. Drawing pictures of murderers and weeping relatives for the tabloid papers, and so on,’ he says, self-deprecating. The lie is perfectly smooth. Arthur wonders if it’s off-the-cuff or if Eames has an entire persona worked out for the journey.

‘Not much use for that in America. We allow photojournalists into court.’

Eames chuckles. ‘I’m on a sabbatical. An artist has to allow his creativity free now and then, mustn’t he?’

‘You don’t strike me as particularly drawn to repression in the first place,’ Arthur remarks.

‘Why, thank you,’ says Eames, his gaze evaluating and amused.

‘May I?’ asks Arthur, and reaches out for Eames’ notebook. 

Eames lifts his hands, leaving Arthur to pick the book out of his lap.

‘By all means.’

Arthur flicks through the pages in reverse order. The latest few drawings are clearly from today, a few more hasty sketches of people aboard the    
Inception   
. He smiles as he recognises a picture one woman, a very fat lady from First Class who in real life seems to float on casters beneath her skirts rather than walking. Then a few drawings of dogs in the streets of Southampton, and before that some landscapes and various portraits. With amusement, Arthur recognises one picture detailing the view from Uncle Nash’s office window back at the country estate. Then...

He raises an eyebrow. ‘Your wife?’ he asks, knowing that of course it won’t be -- Eames isn’t married. But he’s curious to hear what Eames’ lie will be.

‘No,’ says Eames, seemingly approving of Arthur’s lack of prudish shock at finding nude pictures in his sketchbook. ‘An acquaintance. One-legged prostitute by the name of Elaine. French. Lovely girl.’ Probably not a lie, then. It sounds just bizarre enough to be the truth.

Arthur turns a few pages and, yes, the pictures aren’t unfinished -- she really    
does   
only have one leg. 

‘If this is someone you qualify as an acquaintance, I imagine that in your book, you and I don’t even count as having met one another yet.’ 

‘Well, you never really    
know   
someone until you’ve seen them naked have you?’ says Eames thoughtfully, with a glint in his eye. It startles a laugh out of Arthur. The man is flirting --    
flirting    
\-- with him in broad daylight. And not even subtly. He’s got brass balls, has Eames. Not that Arthur hadn’t already guessed that.

Arthur returns the notebook. ‘You’re a talented artist,’ he says. ‘It was... interesting to meet you, Mr...?’

Eames holds out his hand. ‘Martin. Rudolph Martin,’ he says, and shakes Arthur’s hand firmly without so much as a hint of inappropriate lingering. 

‘Arthur Lake.’ 

Eames grins up at him, flipping his notepad back open in his lap. ‘Well, Mr Lake, it’s not so big of a ship, considering the fact that we’ll be on-board for over a week. Perhaps we’ll bump into each other again.’

‘Perhaps,’ Arthur allows, and makes his way off along the deck towards the rest of the deckchairs.

*       *       *

  
They do, in fact, bump into one another again. Eames is at dinner the next day, not at Arthur’s table but seated a few tables over, conversing cheerfully with a middle-aged woman in an enormous feathered hat. Arthur makes polite conversation with the other people at his table, mainly businessmen and their wives (as are the majority of the First Class passengers) and sneaks a few glances over to Eames’ table. The transformation is remarkable; yesterday morning he’d been fairly scruffy and hadn’t even bothered to have his shoes shined, but now Eames is clean-shaven and dressed up in immaculate black tie like every other man in the room. He carries it well. Convincingly, rather -- he’s probably playing a role. 

During the after-dinner drinks, Eames makes his way over to where Arthur is standing and surveying the string quartet playing on the raised stage in the centre of the dining room.

‘Small world, eh, Mr Lake?’

Arthur nods in greeting. ‘I must admit, I had no idea you were in First Class.’ In fact, Arthur    
knows   
that he’s not. He wonders how Eames got in to the First Class dining room. He has no doubt that it’d be a good story. 

‘That does seem rather judgemental,’ says Eames, looking Arthur over with open appreciation. Eames is... ridiculous. How the hell does he get away with it? 

‘Possibly. Am I wrong?’

‘Would you believe I was upgraded?’

‘Why, is that the truth?’

‘Ah, the truth, the truth. It will set you free, I hear.’

‘Really?’ asks Arthur, swirling his brandy glass and gazing up at the gold lights of the chandeliers. 

‘Not so’s I’ve noticed,’ says Eames. ‘By the way, has anyone told you that you look like the Arrow Collar Man?’

‘I can’t say they have,’ Arthur admits. ‘Probably because I don’t. Are you generally this direct? Or am I special?’

‘A bit of both, dear boy,’ says Eames.    
Dear boy   
\-- terribly upper-crust English, but the way Eames says it it sounds like he means it literally. Heat coils in Arthur’s belly as he glances over at Eames’ newly-shaven profile, mouth confident and mobile with expression. 

‘I’m surprised you’ve not been arrested more often,’ says Arthur, and then curses himself for an idiot.

‘“More often”?’ asks Eames. ‘Whatever are you accusing me of, Mr Lake?’ His tone is laden with baseless innuendo, enough that it’s just a hair away from being outright comical. 

Clearly some part of him wants Eames to know who he is. Well, in for a penny... ‘Hardly what you’d call an accusation,’ he says. ‘I’ve already seen you in the dock for defrauding my paternal uncle, so it’s more like a statement of fact in this case.’

To his credit, Eames doesn’t attempt to salvage his false identity; he knows when the game is up. His expression barely even flickers. Arthur can almost    
hear   
his mind working behind those sharp blue eyes. ‘Ah, one of    
those   
Lakes,’ is all he says, leaving the ball in Arthur’s court.

‘I’ve no desire to turn you in, there’s no love lost between Nash and I. Your work on him was rather impressive, by the way,’ he adds. ‘An interesting variant on the Borneo Diamond Hoax. Apart from the part where you got caught, of course.’

‘Of course,’ Eames repeats, humour tinging the surprise in his tone. ‘I must say, this wasn’t the way I was expecting this conversation to go.’

Arthur raises an eyebrow. ‘Oh? What    
were   
you expecting?’

Eames takes out a slim silver cigarette case (Arthur notices it’s initialed with    
N. L.    
\-- neither the initials of Eames’ own name nor that of his current alias the law-court sketch artist) and taps out two cigarettes, offering one to Arthur, who nods. He lights them both in his mouth and hands one to Arthur, looking him up up and down. ‘Well,’ he says, taking a slow drag of his cigarette. ‘How about we start again from the top and give it another try? Has anyone ever told you look like the Arrow Collar Man?’

Arthur leans back against the ornate gold pillar, looking out over the few couples beginning to dance in the cleared area front of the stage. ‘No, Mr Eames,’ he says. ‘I can’t say they ever have, until today.’

*      *      *

  
‘I’m beginning to think you’re following me,’ says Eames.

Arthur turns. ‘Considering the fact that you’re following    
me   
, that would be rather difficult.’

‘You cut me to the quick, my dear. It could be coincidence.’

‘Coincidence that you’re in the First Class library at precisely the same time as me?’

Eames leans on the shelf beside Arthur, crowding into his space. ‘Are you suggesting that I’m illiterate? I    
love   
books.’

‘Oh?’ says Arthur, flicking disinterestedly through a mystery novel before returning it to the shelf. 

‘I own a first edition Nicholas Nickleby, I’ll have you know.’

Arthur looks up. ‘All that proves is that you like either forgery or theft, not books.’

‘Oh, all three of those things have their merits,’ says Eames. ‘Although I admit Dickens doesn’t quiet heat the blood like an evening of grand larceny.’ 

‘I wouldn’t know,’ Arthur lies.

‘Now that,’ says Eames. ‘I somehow find difficult to believe. I wonder why that is?’ He looks intrigued. 

‘Possibly it’s because you’re morally bankrupt and have no idea what it’s like to be an upstanding citizen,’ Arthur suggests.

‘And yet you’ve still failed to turn me in to the proper authorities,’ says Eames, a smirk playing about his lips. 

‘Anyone who successfully screws with Nash gets a couple of get-out-of-jail-free cards in my book. If you get caught now, it’s on your own head.’

‘If I were arrested here and now, would you be sad?’ he asks, stretching his eyes wide and parodically emotional.

Arthur finally gives up the pretense of paying attention to the books. ‘I’d be distinctly unimpressed,’ he corrects.

‘Oh   
,’ says Eames, pleased. ‘That is    
so   
much worse.’

‘Isn’t it?’ Arthur agrees. 

*      *      *

Arthur’s trained to pay attention to his surroundings, so he notices Eames almost straight away. Eames is lurking in an alcove across the deck with his sketchbook, watching Arthur struggle through Frankenstein. For a man on the run from the law, Eames isn’t very good at hiding. Unless he wants Arthur to notice him.

The moment Eames looks back at his sketchbook once again, Arthur is up from his seat and striding across the deck. He snatches the pencil and paper from Eames’ hand. Eames’ other hand comes up quickly, automatic and aggressive (and doesn’t    
that   
make Arthur wonder), but Arthur catches his wrist before Eames’ fist connects. Eames blinks, and Arthur lets go. 

‘My permission first, if you please, Mr Eames.’

‘I’d really rather you used my    
real   
name,’ says Eames mildly. ‘Rudolph Martin, at your service. Literally at your service, if you wish,’ he adds, back to his typical flirting already. 

Arthur snorts, and glances down at the drawing. Eames has drawn him from the feet up, so Arthur’s face and head are still a rough outline while the rest of him is more or less finished, from the shine on his shoes to the geometric creases in his trousers at the bend of his crossed knees. ‘I’d prefer you didn’t draw me without my knowledge,’ he says, and tears that page out, folding it up and putting it into his pocket. 

‘Art theft, Arthur?’ Eames teases, looking up at him through his eyelashes.’Is this due to my bad influence?’

‘Indubitably,’ says Arthur, and returns Eames’ sketchbook once again.

Eames catches his hand just before Arthur turns to leave, running his thumb up Arthur’s wrist and under the cuff of his shirt. Arthur freezes. ‘How do I get permission to draw you then, Mr Lake? Are there mythical tasks that must be fulfilled first, or do I merely have to ask?’

Arthur clears his throat. ‘We’ve got three days left before we reach New York. Persuade me.’

*       *       *

  
Arthur’s not expecting visitors, and paranoia makes him wary as he opens his cabin door that evening.

‘You said I’d done a good job with Nash,’ says Eames, in lieu of greeting.

Arthur ushers him in, closing the door behind him. ‘Up until you were arrested, yes.’

‘You said I’d done a good job of the Borneo diamond scam,’ he continues, gaining momentum. ‘That’s almost a slang term, isn’t it, Arthur? After all, how many people would know specifically the    
Borneo   
diamond scam? Diamonds weren’t even involved when I was working with Nash, after all. That’s the kind of lingo people only use when they’re in the business.’

‘Really?’ says Arthur, with as little expression as possible. 

Eames wanders further into Arthur’s cabin, quick eyes taking everything in, probably memorising it. ‘Then I thought to myself... who have I heard of -- “in the business”, as it were -- whose name is Arthur, who is a dark-haired young American, who might be fast enough on his feet to creep up on me without me noticing.’

‘Well, my name    
is   
Arthur,’ he allows, heart beating faster. ‘And I did get the drop on you the other day, although to be fair you were concentrating on your drawing.’

He puts Arthur’s maps back down on his desk and looks at him. ‘Do we have a colleague in common?’ he asks lightly.

‘I don’t know,’ says Arthur. And that’s God’s honest truth. 

‘A thief with a very beautiful French wife, perhaps?’

Dom Cobb. Arthur relaxes. Well, Cobb    
would   
have occasion to work with a con man, now and then, and Cobb had no reason to know that Nash was Arthur’s uncle, so why    
would   
he have ever mentioned Eames. And if Cobb trusts Eames enough to work with him, it’s not the end of the world that Eames knows who Arthur is. After all, they are in similar lines of work, after a fashion. 

‘Yes,’ he says, and waits. 

Eames exhales, face relaxing into an easy grin. ‘This    
is   
a pretty kettle of fish,’ he says, sounding overly pleased with himself. ‘Arthur... your reputation precedes you. And I must admit, you’re the least criminal criminal I’ve ever met. It’s a rather delightful all round.’

‘Happy to oblige,’ says Arthur drily.

He walks past Arthur back to the doorway, pausing with his hand hovering over the door handle. ‘I think I deserve a reward for that little bit of deduction,’ he says. ‘Don’t you?’

Arthur can smell Eames’ cologne in the air from him walking past. It’s a small cabin. Arthur is very aware that the portholes are closed and covered by curtains; the door closed as well. Eames watches him steadily from the doorway, waiting. 

‘Three o’clock tomorrow, on the upper deck,’ says Arthur eventually. ‘Don’t be late.’

*       *       *

  
He’s not late.

Arthur lets them into the smallest of the soiree rooms. The chandeliers are unlit, and the only light comes in from the windows high up along the edges of the ceiling. The natural light dulls the gleam on the gilt columns and cornices, and the small tables are bare following cleanup after some party or club last night. He can just about hear people talking and laughing outside, and the rhythmic sound of the waves. 

‘Any particular reason why you chose here?’ asks Eames, following him in. He’s not brought any paints or anything, just his pencils and a larger sketchpad than usual. ‘I assumed we’d be doing this out on deck.’

‘Well, this room’s not used during the day,’ says Arthur. ‘I thought it would give us some privacy.’

‘Privacy?’

‘Yes, Eames,’ says Arthur, and smiles slowly. ‘I want you to draw me like one of your French girls.’

Arthur indulges himself by looking round to witness Eames’ slack-jawed expression before fishing his Swiss Army knife out of his pocket, flicking out the screwdriver and using it to lock both the doors to the room. When he turns back, Eames has recovered himself.

‘My,    
my   
,’ says Eames. ‘Lock-picking and offers of nudity? I can hardly guess what I’ve done to deserve    
this   
kind of afternoon.’

‘Is it still lock-picking if you’re locking the lock?’ wonders Arthur idly, and wanders over to the soft velvet chaises that line the walls of the room. 

Eames takes out a hip-flask and takes a swig. ‘Want some?’

‘I don’t need liquid courage, if that’s what you mean,’ says Arthur, amused, but he takes the bottle and knocks some back. Whiskey. ‘It was my idea, after all.’ 

‘Believe me,’ says Eames. ‘The words are already seared into my brain. And the whiskey’s medicinal. I imagine it’s going to be bloody chilly if you’re lying around not moving for hours.    
Naked   
,’ he adds, with relish. He sets his things down on one of the tables. ‘Shall we?’

Instead of answering, Arthur takes off his jacket and hangs it over the back of a chair, his trousers quickly following it. He toes off his shoes and bends down to undo his sock garters. His collar stud and cufflinks are placed carefully in the table before he detaches his starched collar and cuffs and curls them over the back of the chair. Finally, he removes his shirt and underwear and folds them on the chair. He settles down into one of the chaise longues nearby, lying on his back with his head pillowed on his arms. ‘Is this all right?’ he asks.

‘I cannot even    
begin   
to answer that question,’ says Eames, sounding rather unsteady. Arthur grins at the ceiling. Honesly, Eames is being terribly unprofessional about this    
perfectly innocent   
artistic exercise. One might almost think that he’d never seen a naked man before.

Arthur decides to roll over so he can watch Eames while he’s drawing -- he can always close his eyes if it gets too embarrassing to have Eames staring at him, but the army drummed Arthur’s body modesty out of him a long time ago, so that seems unlikely. Besides, Eames has a very pleasing flush rising in his cheeks, and seems to be taking an unusually long time to set up his drawing kit. 

‘How long will this take, do you think?’ asks Arthur, settling himself into a comfortable position as Eames begins to put pencil to paper.

‘Patience, darling,’ says Eames softly, and the pet name hits Arthur so oddly that he’s startled into silence. 

He’d thought about this last night, about the way it’d be. He’d considered the possibility that they wouldn’t even make it to the drawing -- Eames had, after all, spent the last few days making his intentions    
very   
clear. But this is oddly -- but pleasantly -- non-sexual. Once Eames focuses, it’s clear he’s not looking at    
Arthur   
any more, he’s studying a subject. Arthur finds himself falling into a daze as well, watching the concentration on Eames’ face, the way he purses his lips together and makes quick, precise movements with the pencil, eyes flicking up and down continuously between his sketchpad and Arthur’s body.

The longer they stay here, the more Arthur    
should   
be worrying about someone coming in and interrupting them, but he can’t bring himself to care very much. In less than forty-eight hours they will be docking in New York City, and it’s hardly as if being caught naked in a locked room is a crime. Not a serious one, at any rate.

‘There we go,’ says Eames finally, putting down his pencils and stretching out his fingers like he’s playing an invisible piano. ‘Finished. I’ll be sure to hang this up somewhere    
very    
prominent in my new home, wherever that may turn out to be.’

Arthur awakes from his reverie and sits up, clenching and releasing various muscle groups to get his blood flowing again after lying still for so long. His right arm has gone to sleep, and his calves have seized up in protest. ‘Oh, really? I was under the impression this was a commissioned piece.’

Eames frowns. ‘But Arthur, you can see yourself naked any time you like. I, on the other hand, may never get to experience such a wondrous view ever again. It only seems fair to let me keep the drawing.’

‘Come on, bring it over. I want to see.’

It may be Arthur’s imagination, but there’s some trepidation in Eames’ gait as he gets up and brings over his sketchpad, handing it to Arthur. When Eames sits down on the edge of Arthur’s seat, Arthur can feel Eames’ eyes on him again, the weight of his gaze different this time. Arthur focuses on the drawing, willing himself not to blush. He’s comfortable without any clothes on, yes -- but this isn’t    
discomfort   
he’s feeling right now.

‘It’s good,’ says Arthur, though it wasn’t as if he was expecting anything else.

‘We’ll make an art-critic of you yet,’ says Eames warmly, and Arthur can feel the breeze of air on his skin as Eames shifts closer. ‘Care to risk another adjective?’

Arthur turns around, the sketchpad a barrier between them. ‘I don’t know,’ he says. ‘It wouldn’t do to seem too enthusiastic.’ 

‘Very true, very true,’ says Eames, and raises up Arthur’s free hand from the chaise, turning it over and inspecting it clinically. Arthur watches as their fingers twine together, Arthur’s bare arm beside Eames’ sleeved and graphite-stained one, and his breath quickens. There’s something very... intense about seeing Eames there right next to him, still fully clothed while Arthur’s stripped bare. 

He lowers the sketchpad, letting it fall into Eames’ lap, and twists his fingers into Eames’ hair, pulling him into a kiss. Eames puts a hell of a lot of enthusiasm into it (Arthur is decidedly unsurprised at this) but seems unwilling to touch him anywhere but the shoulders, hands sliding down over Arthur’s arms -- safe. Impatient, Arthur shifts forward and tries undo Eames’ tie without having to pull away, and -- 

‘This one’s locked!’ a voice calls out from outside the door.

They pull apart sharply as the door to the soiree room rattles, and footsteps recede into the distance, presumably so someone can go find a key. Arthur springs to his feet and hurriedly pulls on his clothes, fumbling with his collar.

‘Sit down,’ says Eames, laughing, and bends to tie Arthur’s shoelaces while Arthur does up his collar and tie. Eames gathers up all his drawing materials while Arthur wrenches open the lock with his pocketknife. 

‘That wasn’t lockpicking either,’ says Eames breathlessly, once they’ve escaped out into the corridor, making their way as calmly as possible away from the now-ruined lock on the soiree room door. ‘That was wanton destruction.’

‘Forgive me for not wanting to give the maids a heart attack,’ retorts Arthur, unable to keep the grin off his face.

Eames strokes a finger down the side of Arthur’s cheek and along Arthur’s dimples before quickly drawing back. ‘So, less than two days till we reach New York, isn’t it, Mr Lake?’ he says.

Arthur straightens his jacket and they move a few inches further apart as they make their way into one of the more populated corridors. Arthur still feels rather exposed to be in public, hair probably still mussed and lips tingling.

‘Yes?’ he asks, wondering where this is going.

‘Let’s see how much more havoc we can wreak before then, shall we?’    



End file.
